


Trust

by CommonNonsense



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Tumblr Prompt, brutally maiming how spirit dragons work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-25 17:48:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7542130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommonNonsense/pseuds/CommonNonsense
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Facing certain death, weapons gone or useless, they have no hope of escaping. McCree tells Hanzo to flee; Hanzo takes a risk in summoning his dragons without his bow and prays it will work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trust

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a fun post from Tumblr, which put forth the lovely scenario of Hanzo grabbing McCree and channeling his spirit dragon's through McCree's gun. It's an image that is forever embedded in my brain.
> 
> Edit: someone translated this into Russian! I'm so happy! I can't read a word of it but that's okay! https://ficbook.net/readfic/4645714

McCree stares back at their attackers–two omnics, built like humanoid tanks, blocking off their only escape– and knows with a sudden, bone-deep certainty, that he is going to die here.

He’s been in more life-or-death situations than he could ever count, stared death in the face with a shit-eating grin, but never has he felt the cold, eerie inevitability of actually dying. It feels a bit like how he imagines drowning: a creeping feeling of numbness radiating from his gut, fear thick in his throat and chest, hope slipping between his fingers like jagged rays of sunlight on the surface from which he is further sinking away.

Hanzo is beside him, breathing raggedly as he clutches a bloody wound in his side. His bow lay in splinters among the trash in the alley, tossed away in defeat. The Talon omnics in the alley opening close in, visors glowing a vicious orange in the dark.

McCree swallows hard. Peacekeeper feels heavy in his hand. He has two bullets left, but they won’t do a damn thing against armored hulls.

“Hanzo,” he says, closing his eyes. “Get outta here.”

“What?” Hanzo snarls between breaths. “You are insane!”

“I mean it. Maybe you can climb the wall and get out of here while I distract them for a couple seconds.” McCree’s surprised by how calm he feels–or perhaps it’s just reluctant acceptance.

“You are ridiculous, I will not–”

A high-pitched whirr cuts him off. The omnics shift configuration, sliding back panels of reinforced armor to reveal heavy cannons. The whirr peaks into a shrill whine.

“Hanzo, get the hell out of here!” McCree shouts over the noise. He raises his gun, for all the good it will do, determined to go down fighting.

“No–” Hanzo cuts himself off, then whips his gaze to McCree. His eyes are wild and dark. There’s a streak of blood on his left cheekbone, which McCree has a sudden urge to wipe away.

“Do you trust me?” Hanzo suddenly asks. McCree can’t maintain eye contact and looks back at the omnics.

“With my life, darlin’,” he says, putting his finger on the trigger.

“Then do not move,” Hanzo says, and then there’s a hand over McCree’s on his gun, fingers wrapping around his own. Hanzo’s body presses hard against his, an arm bracingly tight like a steel girder around his waist. There’s a telltale flicker of blue in the corner of McCree’s eye and a growl of familiar, rapid Japanese in his ear.

“Ryū ga waga teki–”

Hanzo pulls the trigger for them both, McCree can’t hear the rest of his speech over the gunshot, and then–

Silence.

The world is thrown into sharp contrast, white and electric blue and sparse shadows of black. There is no noise, not a whisper of sound.

McCree is unprepared.

The power surges through him and slams the wind from his lungs. Every neuron, every cell in his body is alight, like electricity streaking through his blood and muscle fibers. He can feel every contour of Hanzo’s chest pressed against his back, the very prints of Hanzo’s fingers digging into his hip to keep him in place. The dragons wind around their outstretched arms–not just Hanzo’s, both of theirs, sinuous bodies twisting, dancing around each other and the men who summoned them, streaking towards the omnics in the alley. McCree cannot breathe, but finds that he no longer needs oxygen. When the sound finally comes, it is sudden and strangely muffled, as though he is underwater: the bluster of a strong wind, the roar of the dragons, all dulled and distorted.

He is frozen in another dimension, feeling misplaced in his body yet never more in tune and alive, watching as the dragons rend the omnics apart with ethereal jaws.

Then, as quickly as they appeared, the dragons are gone. The light fades. The omnics have been reduced to shredded, twisted shells. McCree comes back to himself all at once and gasps, gulping down air. Hanzo remains a wall pressed against him, gripping tight to hand and hip, his hair brushing against McCree’s neck. McCree makes no move to dislodge himself, too stunned and breathless. They stand together for a long, quiet moment, intimately close,

“Ho-ly shit,” McCree breathes.

“Indeed,” Hanzo says mildly. He pulls away abruptly, and McCree shivers. He tells himself it’s because of the cold night air rushing in to fill the space Hanzo previously occupied.

“Does it always feel like that?”

“Yes, although the Shimadas are trained to handle the dragons. It is not so intense for me.” Hanzo grimaces and stumbles suddenly. His hand flies to the bloodied wound in his side. McCree swears and moves to catch him, maneuvering until he can get Hanzo’s other arm over his shoulders. Hanzo continues through gritted teeth, “My apologies. I would have warned you, but I did not know if it would even work.”

“Christ, you don’t gotta apologize for that. You saved both our hides.” McCree leads the way out of the alley and back to the streets, letting Hanzo lean into his side. Hanzo is always a bit worse for wear after summoning the dragons, but between that and the steady blood loss, McCree can only hope to get back to the team before he has to haul an unconscious man.

They pick their way carefully around shreds of metal and carbon fiber, scattered away from the shells of the destroyed omnics. Dizziness and fatigue hit McCree all at once, made all the worse by the sight of street beyond, utterly untouched by the dragons. The fighting on the streets beyond seems to have stopped; with any luck, the rest of Overwatch will meet them halfway before they both collapse with exhaustion.

“You said you weren’t sure that was gonna work,” McCree says, hoping conversation will keep them both upright and aware.

“No. I have only ever summoned them alone, with my own weapons as their conduit.” Hanzo leans his head against McCree’s shoulder, eyes nearly shut; McCree doesn’t think he’s even aware he’s doing it. “I have never tried to channel them that way before.”

“Shit. Glad it worked then.”

“As am I.” Hanzo is silent for a while as they make their way down the street. McCree can hear the voices of Tracer and Winston and then, blissfully, Mercy. As they’re rounding the corner, they spot the three fifty feet away; McCree can’t help the sigh of relief as Mercy glides toward them, wings outstretched.

“The dragons are not trusting,” Hanzo says as they come to a stop.

“Hm?”

“They discriminate between my friends and my enemies, but they will not come to those they deem unworthy. I believed there was a very low chance that they would come when I summoned them today because I was not alone.”

McCree gives a weary grin. “Reckon that makes me pretty special then,” he says with a little tip of his hat. Mercy lands in front of them, her heels clicking against the cobblestone and her staff at the ready.

As McCree passes Hanzo off to Mercy’s care, he swears he hears Hanzo mumble, “You are.”


End file.
